Murphy's Law
by spockish
Summary: Starfleet Command is known for giving vague orders, but this time, their lack of communication could get Riker, Data, and Worf killed.. and start a war. You know what they say. What can go wrong, will go wrong. • Rated T for mature themes, including language, drugs, violence, and sex. Also, hot aliens.


**ayy! tiger here. omg so i havent written fanfiction in almost 2 years. i've been doing a lot of aesthetic, poetry ish stuff on tumblr - mainly roleplay. but my writing is seriously going ( raspberry noise ) so i need to brush up! what better way than with a little fanfic, eh? so this chapter is weird and unspecific? and a lot** **of exposition sO FORGIVE ME but the next one will be better i promise. so, yeah. review, follow, fave, you know the drill.**

 **xoxo tiger**

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The surface of Atros 3 was dry. The trio's beam-down location is in the middle of nowhere - 25 miles from the nearest town, to avoid being seen. A good thing, too – a Klingon, a human, and an android make an odd group, no matter the planet. They'd discarded their Starfleet garb for commoner's clothing, complete with stifling headgear. They'd neglected to bring water; not a problem for Data, but for Worf and Riker, it posed a serious dilemma. The terrain was difficult, too. The desert varied. There were mountain ranges of dunes that would shift overnight; hills of pink sand thousands of feet high would often move miles while they slept. On the other hand, there were wide expanses of flat land. Nothing prevented the harsh wind from slapping sand across their faces and tearing at their clothes. Data had assumed he would be unaffected by these elements, and had focused on the wellbeing of his companions. However, his joints began stiffening up with sand exposure, and his positronic net had grown hotter and hotter. Twice he'd had to stop to reboot all major functions. Worf had grown increasingly aggressive, snapping and often walking ahead of the group. Commander Riker kept up a good face, but his lips were chapping and his face was pale underneath the light pink of Atros 3's four suns.

That was another thing about the surface. Everything was dappled in light reds and blues. Yellows and greens were almost nonexistent. The four suns move across the sky in a tight formation. Three of the suns are pink, but the fourth is a pastel blue. The water is pink; the sky is a warm cream, and the plant life is blue. "It's like a cotton candy paradise," Riker had said. "Except for the heat." Worf growled at this.

Their first night was spent in the open. The temperature dropped quickly. Atros 3 has no moon; only the fourth sun's residual heat warms the planet. As the temperature descended into the negatives, Data made himself busy. He collected several naturally grown gourds during their journey - though the climate seems intolerable, a species of tree sometimes cropped up in small clusters. Large, pear-shaped gourds displayed themselves proudly in varying shades of red on the ends of heavily-laden branches.

Data cut off the top of some of these gourds, and scooped out their innards. When Worf reached for a bite of one of the piles of gourd guts, Data threw some sand on it. When Worf glared at him, he assured the Klingon that it was _"quite poisonous, not at all suited to your tastes."_ Riker gave a half-smile at this. When Data had finished, he aligned the gourds in a row, the holes in the top facing up. Riker was inclined to ask what the android was up to, but Data always had a good reason for what he did, so he just watched.

The cold didn't settle well with Worf. The Klingon grew aloof, and stared at something in the distance that neither of the present company could quite pick out. They had no blankets, no fire, and no knowledge of the wildlife of the planet. The Federation had never been to any planet in the Atros system – long range scans showed it to be habitable to humanoid life, but the civilization had hardly invented the third-core processor. They'd visited their moon, once, several years ago. None of their spacecraft pilots had returned alive. Generally, the planet seemed like it had the potential to be beautiful; but what they'd seen so far was desolate, hostile, and definitely not the type of planet any of them would want to make a permanent residence on.

Starfleet had been exceptionally vague with their instructions. A priority one channel directly to Captain Picard at 0300 hours; a short conversation in the turbolift with four bleary-eyed officers on the way to the transporter, and then, they were on the planet. Riker had expressed noted displeasure at both the timing and inconvenience of the mission, but Worf had almost seemed energized by the early wakeup. Data, of course, had been on the graveyard shift at the helm, and had no problem adjusting. The Captain had looked exceptionally worn, and tension was clear on his features; it was obvious that he was told much more than he was permitted to tell the away team.

When the trio woke up the next morning, it became apparent that the cold had not beset the Klingon well... at all. It was just before sunrise, and Riker was up and brushing the moisture off of him. Data stood, attentive to the first officer, and Riker gave a tight smile. The ground obviously hadn't been the most hospitable, seeing as he moved stiffly. "Let's get going. " Worf didn't hear, or didn't respond. Riker motioned wryly to Worf's prone form.

"You do the honors, commander."

Data shook him vigorously, with barely any response. He shifted, and gave a threatening moan. The white-gold android paused, eyebrows arching, and shook him again, gently this time. Worf opened his eyes, revealing glassy irises. He coughed thickly, and Will's face grew tight with concern. "Worf? - Get him on his feet."

Data hoisted the Klingon up easily, and Worf shook his head, pressing the heel of his hand into his eye. Another low moan escaped him, and he gave a heavy shudder. Riker took a step forward, anxiety clear in his tone. "Are you alright, Mr. Worf?" His voice arched - commanding, hoping to snap the security officer out of his coma. In response, Worf slumped against Data. The shorter one bent underneath the weight, and shifted to adjust.

"Commander," Data said. "I believe he is suffering from the cold."

It wasn't a very well known fact, but Klingons didn't do well in the cold. Much like cold-blooded animals, they became sluggish and unresponsive in cold weather. They thrived, however, in heat. Riker frowned, and Worf gave a slow nod. Data motioned behind Riker with a nod. "Would you retrieve one of the gourds?" When he did so, he tilted his head in confusion. They were filled with .. water? Data noticed the first officer's confusion, and as Riker handed him the gourd, he explained.

"Overnight, the air becomes quite moist, to the point of possible precipitation. However, there are no cloud formations this far from the coast; so the moisture materializes on or in porous objects. Thus why these plants thrive - "

He paused to help Worf sip some of the water. It seemed to have almost an instantly magical effect on him: he straightened up, blinked several times, and peeled himself off the paler form supporting him. When he spoke, his voice was low, and cracking; _most dishonorable,_ he thought.

"I - apologize. I do not .. fare well in cold temperatures."

Riker smiled, and gave a short nod reassuringly. "S'alright. We've all gotten the chills before."

The day's trek was even harder than before. There was a mountain range of dunes that stretched for dozens of miles in either direction; they opted to go straight over the range, instead. Soon, with the climb and four suns working together, Worf's "chills" were far from a problem. Instead, Riker showed signs of severe dehydration. Once, he staggered, and fell nearly 200 feet back down the mountainside. Data assisted him in recovering the ground, but he sported an angry pink sandburn across the left side of his face for the mistake. Data had to reboot at least three times. They ran out of water before the suns peaked in the carmel sky.

Safe to say, they were all relieved when a town cropped up on the horizon. About 5 miles out, they helped each other fix up their headgear: it was a curious land. The species was unique physically. Each had a set of pivoting ears, pointed at the tip and covered in soft hair to protect from the harsh suns. "Like cats," Riker had said drolly. The streets were bustling when they trudged through the gates. The walls stood maybe a hundred feet tall: there were posts for guards, long since abandoned. The stronghold gates in the front, Worf noted, were far from satisfactory. They wouldn't stand against even the weakest attack. Though they were thick, even Lieutenant Yar could have wrested them from their hinges.

They made their way to a bar, straightaway. Riker slouched in his seat, ordered a fizzling water, and stared ruefully at the pockmark in front of the table. Worf seemed alert; he ordered some exotic-sounding plate. Data, however, focused his attention on the crowd.

"We are expecting someone," he said, flatly, almost a reminder to his companions. Worf set his jaw, and focused a beady gaze on the android.

"They are late."

"So it would seem."

Riker draws himself up. "I'm gonna see about some lodging." As he turned about to stand, a gangly looking Atrian eyed him. His eyes were hungry.. different. Something was off about him. He motioned to his companion, who scurried over. He maintained eye contact with Will, though, and gave a dire smile. His companion, a rather portly local, stopped abruptly in front of the trio. Worf drew himself up, and the Atrian bounced on his toes.

"We're not late," he said. His ears swiveled, as if searching for some lost sound in the frenzied sounds of the room. "You're early."


End file.
